


the haunted shadows of the st. augustine lighthouse

by floweryfran



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Iron Dad, IronDad and SpiderSon, Irondad, Italian Tony Stark, Jewish Peter Parker, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Feels, Peter Parker fluff, Peter is a Little Shit, Precious Peter Parker, Social Media AU, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Lives, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, Youtube AU, irondad and spider-son, no pain in this world, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23077495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: A camera blinks to life.Two figures are positioned in front of it, in direct, whitish light. They are about the same height, both rather wiry, bundled in rumpled flannel shirts and puffer vests that look new. The younger is tucked carefully into a beanie.“Hi!” he chirps.The older nudges him in the ribs, turning his glance away to hide a grin.“I’m Peter,” the younger continues. “And this is—” he breaks off, looking towards the other.“I’m Tony,” he says dryly.“And we’re here at the Saint Augustine Lighthouse to, uh, get some ghosts, or something,” Peter says. “My friend really likes spooky stuff and her birthday is coming up, so I wrangled Mister Stark into taking me here to make a video exploring the oldest lighthouse, like, ever, for her. Happy Birthday, MJ!”
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 74
Kudos: 408
Collections: Irondad and his Iron kids, Peter Parker Stories, Peter Parker's Tales, The Best Irondad/Spiderson Fics, The Best MCU Social Media Fics





	the haunted shadows of the st. augustine lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> an au where thanos stopped at an intergalactic gas station on the way to earth and got directed the wrong way. he never showed up. peter is just shy of eighteen. pepper is pregnant with the little miss.
> 
> entirely and wholly based on the buzzfeed unsolved episode with the same name

A camera blinks to life.

The picture is blurry, the surroundings dark, deep night like a black comforter draped over the short building towards the back of the shot, the hulking tower behind it, and a dirt path the color of faded khaki which winds through the overgrown, pockmarked grass, throwing the two vague figures on camera into indistinct shadow.

“You’ve got a flashlight on your phone, Flik, use it,” says a gruff voice.

“While I do not appreciate the implication that I am an ant,” says the other, higher pitched and more petulant than the first, “I am honored to be compared to such a valiant warrior and innovator such as Flik.”

A sharp light turns on, and both men on screen wince, the older murmuring, “my eyes,” and the younger saying, “your fault for making these flashlights more powerful than the Luxor Lamp.”

“Oh, I’m so deeply sorry for being the most advanced and prolific technological producer on the market, let me just— reign in my prowess for you.”

A jump cut.

Both figures are positioned properly in front of the camera now, in direct, whitish light. They are about the same height, both rather wiry, bundled in rumpled flannel shirts and puffer vests that look new. The younger is tucked carefully into a beanie. 

“Hi!” he chirps. 

The older nudges him in the ribs, turning his glance away to hide a grin. 

“I’m Peter,” the younger continues. “And this is—” he breaks off, looking towards the other.

“I’m Tony,” he says dryly. 

“And we’re here at the Saint Augustine Lighthouse to, uh, get some ghosts, or something,” Peter says. “My friend really likes spooky stuff and her birthday is coming up, so I wrangled Mister Stark into taking me here to make a video exploring the  _ oldest lighthouse, like, ever,  _ for her. We’re gonna put this up on YouTube, too, when it’s done, because she will love our shared public embarrassment more than anything else we could do for her. Happy Birthday, MJ!”

“Happy birthday, Elizabeth Short,” Tony says. The corner of his lips twitches like he’s suppressing a smile.

Peter turns towards Tony. “Oh, she’s gonna love that,” he says. “That one is her favorite.”

“I know. You must have told me eight times by now, at least.”

Peter looks back at the camera, visibly flustered. “Anyway!”

A jump cut.

“So, we’re here, at the lighthouse. We’ve got— a bunch of ghost-hunting stuff, like, so much stuff, because Mister Stark does nothing halfway.”

“Of course not.” Tony sniffs. “Why would I bother?”

“Well, I just think someone who is as scared of ghosts as you are wouldn’t go the extra mile to find said ghosts, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re the one who roped me into this.”

“For MJ!”

“You couldn’t have just— used a ouija board or done a seance like a normal kid,  _ no, _ we had to come all the way onto the set, live and in technicolor.”

“Jews don’t do that seance shit, Mister Stark. That’s right, I read the Talmud. Well— skimmed.”

“It’s not like I could let you go out here alone,” Tony continues as if he hadn’t heard the interruption, shaking a finger at Peter, hunched over to look up into Peter’s eyes. Peter has one unimpressed eyebrow raised. “The ghosts could get you! Then what would I do with myself? Rot alone in the lab, with no one to bring me coffee and turn my hair grey?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, Mister Stark,” Peter says. 

“Shh shh shh,” Tony says,  _ “state zitto.  _ They can hear you.” He makes a hand gesture, his pointer finger and pinky lifted and the remaining fingers held down. “Do you have  _ un cornetto _ on you? We need to get you one, like, yesterday. Maybe it’d break your damn Parker luck.”

“I have one,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “It’s in my nightstand drawer, ignored, because it’s a superstition.” 

Tony squints. “I’m sewing one into all of your hoodies, ASAP.”

A jump cut.

“Okay,” says Peter. “Here is some— y’know, basic context.” He holds up a wrinkled note card that Tony eyes with disdain, squinting to read the handwriting upon it. Tony makes a show of removing a glasses case from his pocket and shoving a pair of roundish readers onto his nose. “She’s— well, first and foremost, she’s a beaut,” says Peter. “But she’s also one of the most prolific places around when it comes to paranormal activity. We’ll strangle a ghoul with our bare hands tonight, G-d willing.”

“You know, I win if that happens,” says Tony. “If you strangle a ghoul— note I said  _ you, _ because I will not go within fifty feet of a ghoul— well, if you strangle a ghoul, that means all this spooky shit is real. So I win.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not— it’s a— it’s a friendship. That’s what it is.”

“Mm.”

“We’re  _ friends.” _

“I’ll be your friend and still beat you. There is no conflict of interest there.”

Peter looks at him. “That would make you feel really good about yourself, wouldn’t it? Winning over a poor, innocent little kid like me— Tony!” Peter cuts off in a shriek as Tony digs both hands into Peter’s ribs and tickles him.

Tony slings an arm over Peter’s shoulders, tugging him close and returning him upright. “Let’s walk and talk, kid,” he says. “I’ll carry the camera, you keep playing tour guide. The sooner we get in, the sooner we get out, and this place gives me major heebie jeebies.”

The camera cuts, the image wiggling considerably as two sets of footfalls clammer and cicadas hiss. The light is almost greenish upon Peter’s face. “I don’t know how much American history everyone watching this knows, but Saint Augustine is, like, crusty old. Older than Jamestown. It’s the— here, this is what I found online. It says,  _ Saint Augustine is the oldest continually inhabited settlement in the United States. _ There have been, like, several standoffs at this particular location between armies. A big ship sank here— I forgot to write down the name because I’m a loser, but that’s still pretty cool, if you ask me. Lots of opportunity for ghosties to settle in. This place is really well known for having full-bodied apparitions,” he says, “which means, like— the ghosts aren’t voluptuous, that’s not what I mean, it means— you know what? They knew what I meant. Let’s cut that, let’s cut that.” 

A jump cut.

“I’m just excited to get my little feet inside that lighthouse, mostly,” Peter says. “I don’t  _ think _ we’ll see a ghost, but I kinda hope we do. For MJ.”

“For Kitty Genovese,” Tony’s voice agrees from behind the camera.

Peter’s gaze locks on the lighthouse before them. “You know what? I love a lighthouse. I’ve never been to a lighthouse. They’re so cool, though, like, imagine being a wizened mariner living on a cliff in the middle of the ocean, just tending your lighthouse and pointing ships home.”

“I don’t think you could entertain yourself for long enough to live out in the middle of the ocean alone, kid.”

Peter scratches his nose. “That is— fair, you have a point.”

The camera cuts, and Peter now stands in the entryway to the lighthouse, which is tall and almost indiscernible in color due to the dark and the quality of the image. “Y’know,” Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I think that if there are ghosts, then this is probably where we’d find them. Like, this place has been standing for so long and so much shit happened right on this site— so many people must have died around here. It’s like, um, if I brought you to a Chipotle, we wouldn’t find anything, right, because they haven’t been cropping up since the fifteen-hundreds, and I’m fairly certain there haven’t been all that many battles for occupation inside Chipotle restaurants, right?”

“Time doesn’t always equate to tragedy, Pete,” says Tony. His voice sounds strangely soft.

Peter’s face twitches a little, as if a message has been passed between the two. “Well— okay, if you can find me a Chipotle that’s in a building that more than three people have died in, I’ll do all your laundry for a month.”

Tony physically turns the camera towards his face at an unattractive beneath-the-chin angle and wags his brows, his glasses tucked into the top of his flannel. “You heard the boy.”

“No— no, that’s a  _ you _ mission, Mister Stark— don’t help him! Don’t help him!”

A jump cut.

Peter, looking grumpier, continues. “This big ol’ boy fell into the ocean in eighteen-eighty. If Mister Stark doesn’t start taking this seriously, I will push him into the ocean eighteen-eighty.”

Tony turns and runs, the camera bouncing in his hands.

The next shot shows Peter and Tony side by side again, both looking muddier than they had a moment before, and both significantly more irked. Peter has a smear of dirt on his cheek. Tony shoots a glare at Peter through the corner of his eye, sees the dirt, and softens. He pulls the sleeve of his flannel down over his hand and wipes the dirt away as Peter squawks.

“Enough background,” grumbles Peter, worming away from Tony’s ministrations. “Let’s just go in. MJ probably knows all this already. She knows everything already.”

“This is going swimmingly,” Tony says almost gleefully.

A cut.

Tony walks behind Peter, still holding the camera, as they descend a spiral staircase. “A guy named Peter used to own this lighthouse,” he says, “which I’m sure will be great for us to bond over if he’s hanging out.”

“You know,” Tony says. “For someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts, your hopes for finding one are awfully high.”

“I’m trying to be an optimist for once, Mister Stark. You should try it sometime too.”

The camera catches Tony’s hand reaching out to flick the back of Peter’s head. Peter throws a glare over his shoulder, almost loses his footing, and catches himself on the railing. He freezes, and Tony does too, Peter shooting a round-eyed, round-mouthed look just over the camera. 

A cut.

“Peter Peter Lighthouse Keeper is often found down here wearing a spiffy blue suit, according to people who visit,” says Peter, now standing in the room, which is nearly indiscernible in the poor lighting, but seems to be stone-walled and generally rather damp-looking. “Apparently he was a jerk who hated people and smoked a lot.” He leans closer to the camera and cuffs a hand around his mouth, as if telling a secret. “He sounds like Mister Stark in the nineties more than anything, if you ask me.”

“Ouch,” says Tony.

Peter shoots him an angelic grin, batting his lashes. 

“Teenagers,” mumbles Tony.

Peter points to a nook between a brick wall and a section of wood planks, heading towards it. “I’ve heard people seem to be pretty uneasy about this corner, specifically.”

“Who told you that? What people?” says Tony.

“I told you I researched,” says Peter with a grunt, inching himself into the crack until only his right shoulder sticks out. 

“How’s that feel,” says Tony dryly. “Does it feel creepy?”

Peter stays stock still. “I mean, kinda, but only because I’m wildly claustrophobic. A flaming claustrophobe, if you will.”

“You’re a psychopath,” Tony mumbles and grabs Peter’s arm, pulling him out.

A cut.

The next shot shows both men again, the camera perched upon something out of view. The image gets both of them head to toe, showing their muddy duck boots (which match, much like the rest of their outfits). There is a strange, almost Mexican Standoff type of energy to their position, and a few metal instruments are on the floor at their feet. 

“Alright Ghost Peter,” says Tony. “According to the munchkin over here, you have particular, shall we say,  _ ire  _ towards tourists. And I’ll tell ya, if there was ever anybody representative of tourism, it’s the iron boys.”

“Yeah, look at our outfits,” Peter says. 

“Look at us,” Tony agrees, turning his flashlight towards himself and waving the light up and down. “Like we stepped off the cover of Lands End. Hey, next time we go on vacation, since we’ve got the outfits already, it’s to the Catskills.”

“Oh, so you want it to be a Jewish ghost next time?” Peter demands.

A jump cut.

Tony’s hands are in his pockets as he says, “well, Peter, if you’re upstairs, I’d— truly hate it if you came down those metal spiral stairs right now.”

The camera cuts and the sound turns gritty, a high-pitched and distinct whistle playing out. In the shot, Peter’s eyes widen and he says, “woah.”

Tony’s gaze whips to him as he says, “what, what?”

The audio clip replays two more times, slower as to fully encapsulate the sound.

“Did you whistle?” Peter says, rubbing at his ear as if trying to pop it. 

“No, I didn’t whistle,” Tony says, stepping closer to Peter. He grabs Peter’s shoulder and rubs it. “Why, you heard a whistle?”

“I heard a whistle,” Peter confirms. “Like, a deep whistle.”

“And it wasn’t the wind?” Tony says.

“Shut up,” Peter says, “it scared me, for real. Wait, let’s listen again.”

They stand shoulder to shoulder, their flashlights gleaming. 

“Ghost Peter, is that you?” says Peter after a moment.

“Peter,” says Tony.

“Which?”

“Not you, doofus.”

“Oh, cool, cool. Hey, Peter, buddy, we just want to talk to you.” He smirks just slightly. “Peeeter,” he says, “oh, Peeeter.”

“Hoist the jib,” says Tony. 

Peter looks at him in confusion, snickering. “Is that a thing? You’re just gonna— pull out boat terms willy-nilly? We get it, you’re rich.”

“Hoist the jib!” Tony repeats. Then, “I’ve gotta go use the head.”

“Old people bladders,” Peter mumbles.

A jump cut.

The shot holds just Peter at first glance, dancing awkwardly, dead center. Upon further inspection, the back of Tony’s head and torso are visible in the corner of the shot, half-buried in the brush, while the sound of rushing water can be heard.

A cut.

They are back in the lighthouse. 

Peter has put on a dramatic, vaguely-pirate-esque voice and is reciting what seems to be a poem of his own invention. “Blue skies at night, sailors get in fights,” he says. “Blue skies in the mornin’... oh, what a beautiful mornin’,” he says, breaking into a giggle.

Tony lets out a laugh that seems to float, far younger than his years.

“Come out, Peter,” Peter continues in his pirate voice. “Shiver me timbers,” Peter says, and by then they have both dissolved into laughter, heads thrown back, hands clapping onto their chests.

Peter says, “hoo, boy. Alright, Peter. We’re gonna move to the other basement now, if you feel like coming with.”

A cut. 

In a similar-looking, damp area, Peter and Tony sit cross-legged on the floor. Peter’s hands are tucked into his armpits. 

“More fun facts for you all,” Peter says. He shivers once, and Tony gives him a look, scooting closer until their sides are pressed. Peter gives him a grateful, if slightly sheepish, grin. “Uh, so, these three little girls actually died here when they were kids. They were playing in an area that was under construction at the time, in a cart thing, and it fell into the water and they drowned.”

“Okay,  _ what,” _ says Tony. “Why would you tell me that.”

“Right, right, kids, sensitive topic.” Peter twists his lips. “Sorry, Mister Stark. Just trying to give the full background, you know?”

Tony shakes his head. “Tactless. But really, kids can’t be horsing around in construction sites like that. Were they clueless?”

Peter snorts. “Probably, I mean, they were really young.”

“A construction site,” Tony reiterates, “by the ocean? They didn’t see a problem with that?” Tony shakes his head vehemently.

“Their ghosts have been known to hang out in the keeper’s house,” says Peter, peering at Tony hopefully.

“Are you about to say we’re going there?” Tony says.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah.”

_ “Gesù, proteggici.” _

A jump cut. 

“Okay, so this is the keeper’s house,” says Peter. Tony is holding the camera again as they walk.

“Quite nice,” says Tony.

“A whole cast of characters are said to be inside here. Parts of the building are still original, the brickwork in particular.”

“What do you know about brickwork?”

“It… makes a great home.”

Tony turns the camera towards his own face again and gives it the same dry look. He then turns it back towards Peter, using it to gesture towards the door. “After you, sir,” he says, and a strange knocking sound can be heard under his voice. “Did you hear that?” he says quickly. “Did you hear that?”

Peter turns and looks at him. “Yeah. I think that’s just ghosts.” Peter’s hand closes on the doorknob and twists it open. “Hellooo?” he calls cheerfully as they walk over the threshold. 

“Hi,” says Tony nervously. “Hi,  _ fantasmi, _ good evening.”

Their flashlights illuminate a room that looks rather modern, with posters and framed images on the wall and wooden floors.

Peter, seemingly surprised at the decent condition of the room, says, “even if there’s no ghouls in here, there is AC, so we’ve got that going for us.” 

Tony hums. The camera shakes just slightly in his grip.

A jump cut. The boys are back on the floor in their cross-legged position. More metal devices and speakers and such sit around them. Their flashlights illuminate a model boat on the wall behind them. 

“Now, ghosts,” says Tony, “spirits, apparitions, whatever it is you identify as, I respect it, just let me— know. Uh,” Tony rubs his knuckles against his jaw and sniffs. “We’re gonna turn these fancy expensive devices on now, I think you’ll rather enjoy them.”

“This one stinks, ladies,” Peter says dryly.

“Peter loves it, he was just telling me how much he— loves it.”

“Oh, you’re gonna hate it as much as I do.” Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s so loud and the evidence is almost never actually good.”

Tony smirks at the camera and spreads his hands out. “Guess we’ll see,” he says.

The camera angle shifts, coming closer to the boys. Their faces are thrown in irregular shadow, but the anxious creases around Tony’s eyes and the stubborn purse to Peter’s lips are obvious. Peter flicks the machine on and static plays loudly, echoing in the room. 

Tony startles, jumping. 

Peter claps a hand over the ear closest to the machine. “Oy vey,” he mumbles.

“Alright,” Tony says over the volume of the static. “If you would like to communicate with us, can you please say our names back to us?” He looks at Peter. “Is this right? Am I doing this right?”

Peter shrugs.

They fall quiet, listening to the flickering static.

“That’s Peter and Tony,” Peter says loudly. His nose is wrinkled slightly as if he’s in pain. 

A few more seconds of garble elapse before the words, “we got a—” play clearly, added across the screen in red print for emphasis, and Peter repeats, “we got a  _ what?” _

The static continues. Peter rakes a hand through his hair. “It sounded like one— really clear voice over, like, five little Mariachi bands.”

Tony chuckles just as the static breaks into, “we’re all tonight.” 

_ “Warhol tonight?” _ Tony repeats.

Peter’s head falls back as he laughs.

“And he’s in the house?” Tony says. “We’re in for a goddamn treat. Paint me like one of your Pittsburgh girls, Andy.”

A jump cut finds Tony and Peter in the same positions, but with Peter resting his chin in his hand. “Peter and Tony, those are our names,” he repeats for the sake of any present ghosts. 

“It’s a little quieter now, at least,” Tony says, prodding Peter’s knee with the toe of his muddy boots. Peter’s free hand, which has vacated his ear, pats Tony’s shin. 

“Try to call one of us out,” says Peter. “Or, or try to say your own name.”

“Do you remember any of the dead kids’ names?” Tony says, then looks like he regrets having said it.

Peter’s nose wrinkles as he thinks, then he pats his pockets and pulls out the same crumpled notecard from earlier. It, too, has somehow become muddied. “Eliza!” Peter says, eyes darting along the card. 

Another few seconds pass in static-filled anticipation.

“Alright, I’ve had enough,” says Tony, leaning forward to flick the radio off. 

The static shuts off, and they share a blissful moment of peace. 

“Oh, I love the silence,” Peter says. 

A jump cut. The camera is, again, leaning on a piece of furniture in the room.

“We’re in the parlor now,” says Peter, his arms gesturing to the classic furniture and old-fashioned wallpaper. “People say they hear coughing in here, which is apparently something some old keeper named William Harn did, because he was the only man to ever cough in this lighthouse, ever, historically.”

Tony, standing beside Peter with his arms crossed, lets out a shout of laughter, leaning forward at the waist.

“I kid, I kid,” says Peter. “He did die of TB, though, which sounds pretty fun if you ask me.”

“Oh my god,” Tony says, wiping under an eye with his finger. “These ghosts have gotta be so ticked off at you.”

Peter grins evilly. 

A cut. 

“I’m lookin’ to speak with William Harn,” says Peter in a poor southern accent.

“Why is he— why’d you make him from Kentucky?” Tony says. “Poor bastard, that’s just offending his soul.”

“Uh, I dunno,” Peter says with a shrug. “Just felt right.”

A cut.

“We’re in one of your favorite rooms, in your own house,” says Peter, clearly cajoling the spirit. 

“The parlor,” Tony clarifies. “You must’ve had some happy times in here, listening to that clock of yours. It sure does— tick.”

They fall silent for a moment to appreciate the ticking of the clock. The camera jumps to show it, gold-faced and short on the mantelpiece. 

“This ain’t half bad,” says Tony behind the camera. “A solid six on the spooky-scale.”

“Alright,” Peter calls out of shot, and Tony turns the camera to face him. “We’re gonna give you some silence here, William, ‘cuz we’re real polite guys. If there’s anything you’d like to say to us, let ‘er rip.”

“A ghost fart, perhaps,” Tony says.

“Rip it good,” Peter agrees. 

“Cut the cheddar. How did olden people say fart?”

“I dunno, how do you say fart?”

“I’m gonna get you one day.”

A cut.

The image shows Peter and Tony in a pair of comically small wooden chairs, the type to go with a child’s tea set. They both have their right ankles crossed over their left legs. 

“We’re gonna give you some silence for real this time,” Tony says, and he pretends to zip Peter’s lips, then his own.

The clock ticks for a few slow moments before a muffled thud sounds out.

The video replays the sound twice more, with the caption,  _ *cough*. _

The image cuts to Peter and Tony after having left the lighthouse, Peter wet-haired in an overly large hoodie with cuffed sleeves and Tony in a grease-streaked guinea-tee with a baseball cap on his head. 

“There you have it,” Peter says, gesturing towards a laptop before them. “I was just editing the footage and that was totally a disembodied cough, one  _ thousand _ percent.” He looks over at Tony, a smug little smile turning up his lips, which, as Tony looks at him, causes Tony to stifle a grin of his own. “It has to belong to good old Willy Harn and his raggedy TB lungs.”

The image flicks back to replay the alleged cough once more before returning to future Peter and Tony.

Tony imitates the noise, making it sound more like a gag. “Sounds more like someone getting kicked in the nuts.”

Peter snorts. 

Tony imitates the noise again, the camera zooming in on his face to show off his wide eyes and bulging cheeks in all their glory.

The camera then zooms on Peter nodding to himself and grinning confidently, saying, “it’s pretty definitive, I feel like.”

“Yeah, it could be a ghost coughing,” says Tony generously. 

“I mean,” says Peter, “that’s the sound that I imagine people hear in that room.”

“I will say this,” Tony says, scratching at his bare shoulder. “Florida is, you know, a very loud place. Lot of noises out there,” he gestures with one hand vaguely, “lotta noises. But it is possible that someone could make some sort of noise that quiet, or a movement, that— if it’s a quiet noise, it can be picked up by a microphone.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, deflating only slightly.

“That, from a distance, could sound like a louder noise,” Tony continues as if he hadn’t heard Peter. He turns slightly towards the younger boy and says, upon seeing Peter’s rather dampened expression, much more softly, “you see what I’m saying here?”

“I guess,” Peter says. He then opens his mouth, closes it, and says, “but I also— I, uh, uh I—”

“Are you doing that thing where, when I talk, you go—?” Tony makes an overly exaggerated face of skepticism, apparently imitating what he’s seen from Peter.

Peter wrinkles his nose and hums, shrugging. “Maybe. I just mean that, like, a cough is a far cry from  _ ooo, look at my squeaky little shoe moving,” _ he says, putting on a goofy, high-pitched voice,  _ “I think I’m being sneaky in the distance but maybe I’m  _ not.”

Tony rolls his eyes fondly and lifts his baseball cap off, saying, “hats off to that.”

“Thank you,” Peter says primly, “I’m going to Julliard in the fall like Troy Bolton.” He then looks at Tony, squinting. “Did you wear the hat just for that?”

“Just for that,” Tony says. 

“Well,” says Peter. “It came in handy.”

A cut, and the boys are back in the lighthouse where they left off. 

“We’re gonna go upstairs now,” Peter says, “since that was a bust.” In bright red,  _ not a bust!!! _ flashes across the bottom of the screen.”One keeper fell off the lighthouse once, so we’re gonna go see if we can talk to him.”

“You say that far too flippantly,” says Tony. 

Peter shrugs and stands, coming closer to the camera, hunched in half and looking sideways into the lens. “His wife took over the lighthouse after he died, though, and she was the first ever lady lighthouse keeper, which is super badass and cool. She was also the first Hispanic-American woman to ever control a— wait, how was…” he pulls out the notecard again, “the first Hispanic-American woman to ever control a federal shore installation,” he reads. “Might I say again: badass!”

“Nice to hear something positive about this lighthouse,” Tony says.

“Even though the lighthouse didn’t become part of the US Coast Guard, like, officially, until the nineteen-hundreds, Maria Mestre De Los Dolores Andreu is honored as the first female employee and one of the first Hispanic employees,” Peter continues reading. He then looks up to add, “they’ve seen her at the top, La Llerona style, hair down and white dress on.”

“Jesus,” Tony says.

“She’s also been, like, tricking the alarmed lock on the door to the lighthouse,” Peter says. “The door will end up open in the morning without the alarm having gone off overnight, which is— suitably creepy.”

“Michelle is gonna love this woman.”

“I know,” Peter says gleefully. 

A cut, Peter now holding the camera on Tony as they galumph through the grass towards the lighthouse.

“Why do I need to be on screen alone?” Tony grumbles.

“‘Cuz I want to show your reaction to this next fun tidbit,” Peter says.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Apparently, one ghost we  _ won’t _ find haunting the lighthouse is the keeper's daughter’s cat, Smokey.”

Tony turns so he’s walking backwards, facing Peter head on. “Good,” he says. “Great. I don’t need to hear anymore.”

Peter giggles, the camera shaking in his grasp. “This girl’s brother almost killed the cat during a science experiment.”

“This is the best character in this whole shitstorm situation.”

“So this kid, right? His name is Cracker Daniels.”

“Will wonders never cease?”

“He takes his sister’s cat and tosses it off the top of the lighthouse using a parachute he made.”

“Oh my god.”

“Amazingly, the parachute works and Smokey the cat lives to eat another serving of tuna.”

“I bet that cat made it to the ground and then had a heart attack and died.”

“I can’t imagine cats enjoy being in parachutes,” Peter says.

“That is a hypothesis we will not be testing.”

A jump cut. 

“All right,” Tony says, behind the camera once more, as they come upon the lighthouse. Peter is craning his neck to see the peak of it. 

“The main show,” says Tony.

“Well,” says Peter. “We’ve finally arrived at the big kahuna.”

“You know, it didn’t occur to me until now that this is going to be quite physically taxing,” Tony says. “My heart is a wreck.”

“We’re putting your pacemaker to the test,” Peter says, prodding Tony somewhere off screen. He then says, “I am totally kidding oh my gosh Mister Stark do not take that seriously I will literally carry you up these stairs if need be—”

A jump cut. 

They walk into the entryway, revealing white-painted brick walls and dirty tile floors. The entryway is narrow, and two people any broader than them would not be able to fit side by side the way they do.

“The most compelling ghost evidence of all time- or, like, some of it- has been caught here, in my humble opinion,” says Peter, his voice coming to a slight hush, as if afraid to disturb the silence of the place. “It’s kinda crazy, actually, to be standing in the intestines of ghost history.”

“Gross, kid,” Tony says. Then the camera tilts back to show off the stairway. “Helluva rotunda. Wow, that is tall. Makes me feel like a small guy.”

“Someone caught an apparition full out peering over that railing once,” Peter says, pointing. Tony zooms in on the spot. 

“I mean,” Tony says. “That’s terrifying. I’m actually very nervous. Can you tell?”

“I can  _ smell,” _ Peter says, and Tony’s hand enters the shot as he yanks on Peter’s earlobe. 

A cut. 

They have begun slowly walking up the stairs. 

“So, it’s said the little girls haunt this lighthouse,” Peter says. “And Maria and her husband whats-his-name. So we’ve got a whole cast of characters to reach out to.”

“The Brady Bunch of ghosts,” says Tony.

“Full House, but instead of John Stamos it’s dead people.”

“Have mercy.”

A cut. 

The camera is zoomed too close to Peter’s face, almost comically close, and his hair is sticking out in all directions under the edge of his beanie. The splash of freckles on his nose is countable, even in the pale light. “I read online that someone saw a ghost on the third landing, and other people saw— other, y’know, ghost stuff there. You wanna go?”

“No. But will we? I’m sure.”

They walk, the camera bouncing in Tony’s hands as he trails a degree behind Peter’s bounding steps. 

“Slow down,” Tony says,  _ “pazzo,  _ you’re gonna fall down, and then I’ll mourn.”

“I’m reaching out to Maria, because you’re so cool and badass and my friend MJ would love you,” Peter calls, his voice echoing, his footsteps bouncy. “Do you- or any of you other guys, I guess- do you want to talk to us? We’re friendly once you get past our prickly exteriors.”

“We both have terrible avoidance tactics, we’re working on it,” Tony says.

“I’d love to see one of ya,” Peter adds, winking. “I know whoever is in here likes to mess with people, play tricks, run up and down the stairs. You can push us down the stairs if you want.”

“Uh, no you can’t,” Tony says loudly. 

“If it would give you a chuckle, you could,” Peter says. 

They continue to climb in relative silence. 

“Now this is quite homey,” Peter says when an automatic light flicks on, tossing the staircase into warm yellow. 

“We seriously need to work on your definition of homey,” Tony says. 

They reach the landing, leaning the camera on a cabinet posed there so that their hands are free. 

“Alright, Maria and husband,” says Peter. He looks at Tony. “I literally don’t remember his name, is he gonna be offended?”

“If people forgot my name but remembered Pepper’s, I would say  _ hell yeah _ with gusto,” Tony says, “so I think you’re safe.”

Peter nods. “In that case, we’re reaching out to you guys. I’m Peter, this is Tony, and we’re at the top of your lighthouse. Because we busted in here, like a couple of degenerates. Hey, you know what the coolest thing in the world would be?”

“What?”

“If we heard steps at the bottom right now.”

_ “That would not be cool at all.” _

“Getting louder and louder.”

“Stop stop stop.”

“You hear me down there?” Peter calls, leaning over the railing. Tony grabs a fistful of his vest to weigh him down. “Give us some scary movie stuff. Start walking up the stairs one at a time. That’d be real scary.”

A moment of silence. 

Peter, still leaning precariously over the ledge, throws his arms out and yells, “dazzle us!”

Tony says, “you know what it is? I think they’re intimidated by us.”

“For sure,” Peter says. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Especially our excellent fashion.”

“Weren’t you just badmouthing our fashion?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot, we hate these outfits.”

“I think you kinda like them, Mister Stark.”

“They’re very— quaint!”

A cut.

They’re on top of the lighthouse on a balcony sort of thing, a short banister separating them from a long fall. 

“You could see the whole world from up here,” Peter says quietly.

“What, ‘cuz the two of us are strangers to high vantage points?” says Tony.

“Well,” says Peter. “Hey, let me enjoy life for a minute. You’re starting to resemble Jim Carrey’s Grinch.”

“That is  _ literally _ the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

A cut. 

The camera seems to have returned to Peter’s hands since the quality is less shaky. 

“I know this lighthouse is haunted, but I would, like, live here,” Peter says.

“The view is nice,” Tony acquiesces softly from off screen. 

“I don’t even want to haunt it,” Peter continues, panning the shot to display the thick sheet of stars above them and, in the distance, black water moving gently.

“What do you think, Maria, hm?” Tony says. Then, “wow, that felt like addressing my mother.”

“Maybe she’s hanging out with us, too,” Peter says. 

“Cut this part,” Tony says softly.

“Sure, Mister Stark,” Peter says.

A beat.

“Hey, you see that light over there? On the dock?” Peter zooms towards it, so the audience can look along. 

“Yeah, kid, I do.”

“That’s where the husband fell, where the original lighthouse was.”

“Oh,” Tony says. “... Wow.”

“Wow,” Peter echoes. “Man, look at all those stars. I know we’re technically on a ghost hunt right now, but—”

“A shooting star just went behind your head!” Tony says, pointing. 

Peter whips around, camera in hand, “what, woah! Woah! Oh my gosh! Wow!” He zooms nauseatingly for a few moments before giving up, turning back around, and pointing the camera towards Tony.

“I bet that was your mom,” he says softly. “I bet she heard us talking about her and wanted to say hi.”

Tony’s face melts so quickly it nearly folds right in two, his eyes shining in the light from their flashlights, fondness pouring from his every pore as he stares right above the camera lens. 

“Maybe, buddy,” he says. 

“Oh!” Peter yelps. Tony jumps about a foot into the air. “I just saw ano— wait, no, that’s a bug, false alarm, my bad.”

A cut. 

They are back at the base of the lighthouse, and Peter is filming the two of them vlog-style, slightly above their heads. They both look tired, still slightly muddy, and are standing even closer together than they were at the start of the expedition, pressed from shoulder to elbow.

“We’re gonna go lock ourselves in there alone now, because we’re stupid,” says Tony.

Peter turns towards Tony with a frown, then sighs and sags a bit against Tony’s shoulder. “Yeah, pretty much,” he says.

A cut. 

Peter is shoving a pair of yellow-lensed glasses on his face. 

“Explain to the people why you look like bargain-bin  _ me,” _ Tony says.

“These are supposed to be good for driving in the dark,” says Peter, “and this is me driving myself towards insanity in the dark, so I feel like it fits. They’ll help me see the ghosties better, hopefully.”

“Michelle, I hope you’re screen-recording this,” says Tony. 

Peter, glasses in place, sets his shoulders back and his arms crossed over his chest. “Self-sacrifice doesn’t matter if it’s me because I’m Tony Stark and I don’t have a healthy fear for my own life,” Peter says in a rather good imitation of Tony’s voice. He sniffs once, twists his lips to the side. “I can’t make an omelet properly but I once made a three-tier cake for my intern because I accidentally threw out his Physics study guide. I collect sand from every beach I’ve ever been to like a Pinterest mom.”

“That’s enough from the peanut gallery,” Tony says, scowling slightly but incapable still of squashing a layer of fondness from his eyes, the set of his lips, the way he leans towards Peter even when he walks away, as if being pulled by something magnetic. 

“So, I’m going up alone,” Peter says, shooting Tony a falsely sheepish grin. “I’m going to go up, and then I’m going to— come down.”

“Yes, that is indeed how a staircase works.”

“Yup.”

“Sounds good.”

“Okay.”

“Good luck. Don’t let a ghost purple nurple you.”

“I’ll try my best,” Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest once more. 

“Be safe,” Tony adds flippantly. 

Peter presses the toe of his shoe on top of Tony’s. “Always am.”

A cut. 

Peter is carrying the camera quite close to his face, taping himself as he walks. The ear-pieces to his glasses are uneven and they sit crookedly on his nose. His beanie is slightly askew. His vest has been zippered up to his throat. 

“This is high time for a ghoul to come and spook me,” he says. He turns the camera to show the iron stairs, then points it at his face once more. “So far, no ghouls.”

A sudden cut and drastic decline in image quality shows Tony’s face as he films himself. 

“I decided to narrate my thoughts while waiting for Pete to realize that ghosts are entirely real and entirely ready to kick his shrimpy ass,” Tony says, “so I’m filming on my phone.”

He turns the phone so it films the lighthouse, showing the light that is on at the third level, where they had paused earlier. “When you’re with that kid, it’s easy to forget you’re in one of the scariest places on Earth, partially because he talks so damn much that you can’t remember anything about who you are and what you’re doing until he zips his trap, but also because he has absolutely no fear for his life— like, a minute ago, you heard him tease me for that, but I’ve got nothing on him. He’d take a hit from an eighteen wheeler to save an elderly squirrel without hesitating. Crazy.” His voice is soft. Affectionate.

Doting, even.

“Uh, and now that he’s not gonna be in there when I go in,” Tony says. He flips the camera around to face himself again. “Now— I’m not saying I’m a weenie when he’s not around, but I’m definitely implying it a little, because, y’know, when your kid is around you’ve gotta squish the flies and stand up to bullies, to protect them. You get braver by being around them, instinctually. I don’t know if this is making sense, whatever, I’m a wuss. Put it out there, Tony Stark is a wuss who is very, very scared of ghosts so if the ghosts are listening right now I just want to say hi and also please give me a wide, wide berth thank you.”

A cut, and Peter is there again.

“Alright,” he whispers, “I’m at the top of the lighthouse. And, y’know what, it’s actually, like, kinda cold. Like, you know how in movies everything gets super cold when a ghost is there? Oh, wait, wait, I’m totally thinking of the dementors in Harry Potter, and how the door on the train freezes over, sorry, mixed up my references like an idiot.”

The camera flips to display the winding staircase before Peter.

“This is supposed to be where a bunch of FBA’s occur,” says Peter. He zooms in on his own face. “That’s full-bodied apparitions, for you non-ghost-hunter folk.”

Peter zooms back out.

“Honestly, I’m so disappointed. I feel nothing. No ghosts. No spookiness. No vibes. Damn, MJ, I’m sorry. This is sorta lame.”

A cut back to Tony on his cell phone. He’s chortling to himself before he even begins talking. “Really, I think I just want to see the look in Peter’s eyes if there is a ghost in there and he sees it. He’ll scream so loud, it’ll be one for the books. I hope I can— here, let’s be hopeful, this is where he’ll cut away to it in editing.”

The cut happens, but Peter is definitively not terrified. More than anything, he looks bored. He sits for a moment, then makes a fart sound with his mouth and says, “alright, see you later, dudes,” rising from his perch and beginning to descend the stairs. 

A cut to Peter filming Tony’s back as Tony walks into the lighthouse. Tony’s shoulders are stiff. 

“You’ve got this, Mister Stark!” Peter calls. “Don’t pee yourself, though, because we forgot to bring a clean diaper for you to change into.”

Tony flips Peter off over his shoulder as he walks in. 

A cut to the camera in Tony’s hands, filming his own face.  _ “Ave Maria, piena di grazia,” _ he mumbles,  _ “il Signore è con te.” _

He steps into the entryway and doesn’t get any farther before he says, “ohh boy.”

He turns and steps back onto the staircase up to the entry. “Just gimme one sec,” he says. 

Peter laughs loudly.

“Gotta work my way up,” says Tony, “I gotta work myself up to it.”

“No, you don’t get to work yourself up to it!” Peter says. “I went straight up, now you, Mister Stark.” He waves his arms, shooing Tony back towards the lighthouse. “Get in, get in.”

Peter shoves Tony through the door with an elbow and closes it behind him.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony says, pale and wide-eyed. 

“Walk up the lighthouse!” Peter yells from outside. 

A cut, and Peter is filming on his own phone camera. “If Mister Stark is vlogging, then I am, too,” he says. His ears are tucked into his vest now, the tip of his nose red. “I dunno if he’s just playing this up to be funny or what, but this seems weirdly serious, like, why is he so scared of ghosts. They’re totally not real. If they didn’t want to hang out with me, then there’s no way they exist, that’s that.” Peter wipes his nose on his sleeve. “We’ve literally been to pizza shops in Hoboken scarier than this place.”

A cut, and Tony is on screen once more, filming himself at the same terrible angle he’s been using all night. “I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs,” he says. “I’m working my way to the top— to the tippity top.” He scrunches his face. “I hate that I’m about to say this.” He raises his voice to a shout. “If you don’t want me to go to the top of your lighthouse, you’d better stop me!”

Tony waits a moment as if for a response. 

“Okay,” he mumbles, and begins up the stairs. “This is so fine, I’m excellent, I’ve never been better, I feel great. Oh my god I hope Pepper is praying for me. I hope  _ Peter _ is praying for me, I need— every god on my side right now, I’m not picky which god it is, as long as it isn’t Zeus, because, let’s be honest, that guy is a dick.”

He continues walking. “Do not be afraid,” he tells himself repeatedly. 

When he hits the third landing and the automatic light flickers on, he lets out a delicate shriek of fear. 

“Oh, it’s just you,” Tony says to the light.

A cut to Peter, filming himself. “I’m sorry, MJ, but I really don’t think it’s haunted. Nice architecture, though. It’s like a big, tall, round house with a— beautiful light at the top. Who wouldn’t like that?”

A cut back to Tony. “I’m gonna use something that’s gonna help you speak to me, alright? It’s like a translator, it turns ghost hissing into English.  _ Va bene? Va bene.” _ He turns on the same static device he and Peter had used earlier. 

When it starts, loud and brash, he yelps, then fiddles with knobs until the volume lowers. 

“Is there anyone with me right now?” he says, sounding regretful.

The static flicks through channels. 

“My name is Tony,” he says. 

Some unintelligible garble breaks through the static.

“What?” Tony says, his face freezing. “Can you say my name back to me?”

A moment of flickering, then, almost unmistakably,  _ “Maria,” _ cuts through. 

Tony drops the camera. It bounces off his shoe. 

“Shit,” he says. “Fuck. Oh my fucking god, what the fucking fuck was that. Hi, mom, so sorry for the cursing and the— you dying. Oh my god.”

Tony picks the camera up, his face bone white and his hands shaking. His eyes are wide and his lips pressed into a fine line. 

“Mamma?” Tony says uneasily. 

Something that sounds like, “swap me,” breaks through the static.

“Oh my god, I’m panicking,” says Tony. “I’m panicking, I’m panicking. Where’s the— kid, sorry, I’m out, I’m so far out I’m in fucking Georgia, I’m out.” He begins down the stairs.

From the radio,  _ “you hear me.” _

Tony’s eyes bulge. “I do hear you,” he says, almost gently. “I do hear you. Christ, I have the chills.”

Tony stops walking. “How did you die?” he says, and his voice is weak.

A sound like, “chimney,” breaks through.

“Oh,” says Tony, and then his face tightens a little. “Not Mamma, then. Misunderstanding. That’s fine.” He breathes. “I’ll, uh, still talk to whoever you are. Must be lonely. The chimney, you said?”

Through the static, “fell off the chimney.”

“Fell off a chimney?” Tony repeats, frowning. “Why would you put a chimney on a lighthouse? This whole history is stupid move after stupid move, from the kids in the cart to falling off a chimney.”

Tony frowns, still thinking.

A cut to Peter. “He’s been in there a while, huh?” he says, then sniffles, nose still wet at the tip. His cheeks are pink and he’s tucked his ears under his hat. His breath hovers thick before him. 

A cut back to Tony, hastening down the stairs. Through the radio jumble comes what could be, “why are you leaving?”

“Why am I leaving?” Tony repeats. “Is that what the  _ fuck _ you just said?” He continues down the stairs even more quickly. “Because I’m fucking scared, that’s why.  _ Arrivaderci,  _ you had your chance.” The camera points at the ground, and Tony’s muddy boots reach the stairs with haste. “Fuck, fucking fuck,” he announces, catching Peter on video as he wipes his nose on his sleeve. 

“Turn off the radio,” Peter says.

“Get a tissue, Drippy,” Tony says, but does as Peter told him. “Hoo boy. I almost had a panic attack in there.”

Peter pushes off the ground and onto his feet, approaching Tony. Rather than stopping once they’re close, Peter careens right into Tony’s shoulder, pressing his face there, muffling the sound of his voice as he asks, “did you hear something?”

“I thought it was my mom,” Tony says, holding the camera out to catch his face and the back of Peter’s head. Tony rests a hand atop Peter’s beanie. “I asked who was there, and, clear as day, it said Maria. But then I asked how she died and she said something about a chimney, which is absolutely not how my mother died. I mean, it could’ve been lighthouse badass Maria, but in the context of what we saw earlier…”

“With the shooting star and all,” Peter mumbles into Tony’s vest. “Maybe it really was her. I bet that radio gets it wrong, sometimes. Hey, you got a ghost,” Peter tugs at Tony’s sleeve, “congrats, Mister Stark, you win.”

Tony squeezes Peter closer rather than answering.

“Hey, are you okay?” Peter says. “You were really yelling something fierce in there, I could hear it from here.”

“My brain is mush right now.”

“Do you think it was really a ghost, for real?”

“I felt weird and terrified. Like, more than usual. So, I dunno. Maybe, squirt.”

“Hmm. Are you too terrified to stop at Taco Bell on the way back to the AirB&B?”

“I’m never  _ that _ terrified,” says Tony, shooting a wink at the camera. He’s still pale, but looks somewhat regenerated since acquiring an armful of Peter. “Have any last words for Miss Jones?”

“Happy birthday, MJ. I’m sorry none of us caught a ghost on camera, but I sure hope this entertained you at least a little bit.”

“Ditto, Michelle,” says Tony as he drops his temple onto Peter’s head. “I hope your day is as full of excitement as this was.”

“Bye, everyone,” says Peter.

“See ya,” says Tony. He squeezes Peter tighter once more as he clicks the camera off. 

The feed goes black as the video ends. 

**Author's Note:**

> absolute tomfoolery!!!! happinessxpeterparker thats my otp
> 
> also this is so unedited im so sorry its 1:41am ive nodded off like twice the post-insomnia crash is finally blessedly here
> 
> have a good night fellas i love u each and every one <3


End file.
